Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: adult‎ (46)

I am lost.

But I couldn’t face the truth. That’s why I left, why I drove straight, why I left Mom alone to face the news by herself. What kind of pe

I am lost.

But I couldn’t face the truth. That’s why I left, why I drove straight, why I left Mom alone to face the news by herself. What kind of person does that? A person who deserves this. A person who deserves to lose what she treasures. I deserve to be lost, to never see home again, to never swim in the ocean again.

"Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice
And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.' "

I have to believe that I’ll escape someday. But maybe there is no hope.
Maybe it’s over.
Maybe I’m in hell.
Or purgatory.
Maybe I’m dead.
Maybe I can never return.
Maybe this is it.

Behind me, the man says, “You were lost; you are found.” As if they’re one, everyone outside—the kids, the woman planting dead flowers, the man in the dirty business suit—all turn to face the diner.
Inside the diner, everyone applauds.

Children, as ragged as those on the outskirts of town, are crouched in the alleys between the shops. Perched on top of and around Dumpsters, they watch me, their eyes bright and hard. One little girl in a princess dress sucks on her thumb. She has a dirty teddy bear tucked under her elbow and a knife in her other hand. She squeezes the handle as if it’s as comforting as a teddy bear.

I retreat away from the center of town, back toward the motel and the diner. I hear footsteps behind me.

The children are trailing after me.

I’m the Finder. The Finder and the Missing Man, two sides of a coin, not the same. I bring them in, and he sends them on. I can’t send you home. But I can keep you alive.” He holds out his hand. “If you trust me.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Peter jumps to his feet. “I’ve watched you yearn to leave. Now I’m going to show you why you should want to stay.” He holds out his hand.

I take it.

I try to push the ache deep down like I always do and pretend it’s enough to paint walls and collect teacups.

“You don’t seem to be an interesting person,” he says. “Lost your way emotionally, psychologically, and physically. Cut-and-dried, really. There must be more to you.”

He lands softly beside me, like a cat, bent knees. He rises smoothly. “I told you I find the kernel of hope. You lose hope and I can’t find you. I’ll always find you. But you have to exist to be found!”

“You can’t save everyone. Consider that your next lesson. That man died before he came here.” He’s earnest in a way I’ve never seen him, eyes intent on mine. I imagine I see a flicker of...what? Sadness? All the childlike play is gone, and I see a man who looks as though he’s lost more than I can imagine.

I don’t care what he thinks of me, so long as he helps me get home. I don’t need to make friends, even with shockingly handsome and strangely fascinating men who might as well have walked right out of my subconscious.

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,'' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!' "

On the Offshore Lights you can live any story you want to tell yourself, and no one will say you’re wrong: not the seagulls, not

On the Offshore Lights you can live any story you want to tell yourself, and no one will say you’re wrong: not the seagulls, not the prisms, not the wind.
So Isabel floats further and further into her world of divine benevolence, where prayers are answered, where babies arrive by the will of God and the working of currents.

...he wondered what other secrets lay behind her playful smile.

“Izzy,” Tom called. “Izzy, wait! Don’t do your ’nana, love. He’s not…” But she was already too far off to hear the rest of his words.
“She…” Tom considered whether to explain. “She got the wrong end of the stick about it. Sorry. She’s chucked a wobbly. Once she does that, all you can do is batten down the hatches and wait for it to pass. Means I’ll be making sandwiches for lunch, I’m afraid.”

“It’s all got to go in the log, pet. You know I’ve got to report everything straightaway,” Tom said, for his duties included noting every significant event at or near the light station, from passing ships and weather, to problems with the apparatus.

“Then the baby’s probably got a mother waiting for it somewhere onshore, tearing her hair out. How would you feel if it was yours?”
“You saw the cardigan. The mother must have fallen out of the boat and drowned.”
“Sweetheart, we don’t have any idea about the mother. Or about who the man was.”
“It’s the most likely explanation, isn’t it? Infants don’t just wander off from their parents.”
“Izzy, anything’s possible. We just don’t know.”
“When did you ever hear of a tiny baby setting off in a boat without its mother?” She held the child a fraction closer.

“I suppose, at a pinch…” he conceded, the words coming with great difficulty, “I could—leave the signal until the morning. First thing, though. As soon as the light’s out.”

“Oh, little sweetheart,” she murmured, and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Seconds later, the child had latched on fast, sucking contentedly, though only a few drops of milk came.
They had been like that for a good while when Tom entered the kitchen. “How’s the—” He stopped in mid-sentence, arrested at the sight.
Isabel looked up at him, her face a mixture of innocence and guilt. “It was the only way I could get her to settle.”
“But… Well…” Alarmed, Tom couldn’t even frame his questions.
“She was desperate. Wouldn’t take the bottle…”
“But—but she took it earlier, I saw her…”

“We need to welcome Lucy, and say a prayer for her poor father.”
“If that’s who he was,” said Tom. “And Lucy?”
“Well she needs a name. Lucy means ‘light,’ so it’s perfect, isn’t it?”

“Izzy, Izzy! You know I’d do anything for you, darl, but—whoever that man is and whatever he’s done, he deserves to be dealt with properly. And lawfully, for that matter. What if the mother’s not dead, and he’s got a wife fretting, waiting for them both?”
“What woman would let her baby out of her sight? Face it, Tom: she must have drowned.”

“Funny how lives turn out, isn’t it? Born to more money than you can shake a stick at; went all the way to Sydney University to get a degree in something or other; married the love of her life—and you see her now sometimes, wandering about, like she’s got no home to go to.”

“Hannah had a terrible tragedy a few years ago. Family lost at sea—her husband, and a daughter who would have been about your girl’s age by now. She’s always asking that sort of thing. Seeing little ones sets her off.”
“Dreadful,” Isabel managed to mutter.

“How can you be so hard-hearted? All you care about is your rules and your ships and your bloody light.” These were accusations Tom had heard before, when, wild with grief after her miscarriages, Isabel had let loose her rage against the only person there—the man who continued to do his duty, who comforted her as best he could, but kept his own grieving to himself.

I’m stranded on Mars. I have no way to communicate with Hermes or Earth. Everyone thinks I’m dead. I’m in a Hab designed to last 31 days.

If the Oxy

I’m stranded on Mars. I have no way to communicate with Hermes or Earth. Everyone thinks I’m dead. I’m in a Hab designed to last 31 days.

If the Oxygenator breaks down, I’ll suffocate. If the Water Reclaimer breaks down, I’ll die of thirst. If the Hab breaches, I’ll just kind of explode. If none of those things happen, I’ll eventually run out of food and starve to death.

So yeah. I’m fucked.

I’m pretty much fucked.

That’s my considered opinion.

Fucked.

Six days in to what should be a greatest two months of my life, and it’s turned in to a nightmare.

It was a ridiculous sequence of events that led to me almost dying. Then an even more ridiculous sequence that led to me surviving.

We were six days in when all hell broke loose, so that leaves enough food to feed six people for 50 days. I’m just one guy, so it’ll last me 300 days. And that’s if I don’t ration it. So I’ve got a fair bit of time.

But if I could communicate, I might be able to get a rescue. Not sure how they’d manage that with the resources on hand, but NASA has a lot of smart people.

So that’s my mission now. Find a way to communicate with Earth. If I can’t manage that, find a way to communicate with Hermes when it returns in 4 years with the Ares 4 crew.

Remember those old math questions you had in Algebra class? Well, that concept is critical to the “Mark Watney doesn’t die” project I’m working on.

I need to create calories. And I need enough to last four years. I figure if I don’t get rescued by Ares 4, I’m dead anyway. So that’s my target: four years.

I have an idiotically dangerous plan for getting the water I need. And boy do I mean *dangerous*. But I don’t have much choice.

As you can see, this plan provides many opportunities for me to die in a fiery explosion.

Firstly, Hydrazine is some serious death. If I make any mistakes, there’ll be nothing left but the “Mark Watney Memorial Crater” where the Hab once stood.

Presuming I don’t fuck up with the Hydrazine, there’s still the matter of burning hydrogen. I’m going to be setting a fire. In the Hab. On purpose.

If you asked every engineer at NASA what the worst scenario for the Hab was, they’d all answer “fire.” If you asked them what the result would be, they’d answer “death by fire.”

“He’s stuck out there. He thinks he’s totally alone and that we all gave up on him. What kind of effect does that have on a man’s psychology?”

He turned back to Venkat. “I wonder what he’s thinking right now.”

LOG ENTRY: SOL 61

How come Aquaman can control whales? They’re mammals! Makes no sense.

I’m going to use the RTG.

The RTG (Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator) is a big box of Plutonium. But not the kind used in nuclear bombs. No, no. This

Plutonium is way more dangerous!

Plutonium-238 is an incredibly unstable isotope. It’s so radioactive that it will get red hot all by itself. As you can imagine, a material that can literally fry an egg with radiation is kind of dangerous.

I'm turning my pee into rocket fuel. It's easier than you'd think.

Urine is mostly water. Separating hydrogen and oxygen only requires a couple of electrodes and some current. The problem is collecting the hydrogen. I don't have any equipment for pulling hydrogen out of the air.

If I survive this, I'll tell people I pissed my way into orbit.

I chipped his sacred religious item into long splinters using a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. I figure if there’s a God, He won’t mind, considering the situation I’m in.

Ruining the only religious icon I have leaves me vulnerable to Mars Vampires. I’ll have to risk it.

One thing I have in abundance here is bags. They’re not much different than kitchen trash bags, though I’m sure they cost $50,000 because NASA.

"We updated Pathfinder’s OS without any problems. We sent the rover patch, which Pathfinder rebroadcast. Once Watney executes the patch and reboots the rover, we should get a connection.”

“Jesus what a complicated process,” Venkat said.

“Try updating a Linux server some time,” Jack said.

After a moment of silence, Tim said “You know he was telling a joke, right? That was supposed to be funny.”

[12:04]JPL: We’ll get botanists in to ask detailed questions and double-check your work. Your life is at stake, so we want to be sure. Also, please watch your language. Everything you type is being broadcast live all over the world.

[12:15]WATNEY: Look! A pair of boobs! -> (.Y.)

This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it

This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it was cute? I don’t need this thing. She threw it contemptuously over her shoulder.

There’s something foul wandering the underground tunnels beneath my office, something that’s invisible to my vaunted powers.

Crap.

Where’s my gun?

Dear You,
The body you are wearing used to be mine.

When she opened her eyes and took a breath, she realized that there was no one holding her. Instead, the four people were lying on the ground, twitching uncontrollably.

I’ve only ever heard of three people who tried to leave the Checquy, and I know the history inside and out.
The first was a powered individual called Brennan the Intransigent who made a break for it in 1679. He was crucified on the cliffs of Dover.
The second was a soldier in 1802. He was carefully brought back to the Checquy stronghold and then buried alive in his village’s graveyard.
The third was a woman who could grow tentacles out of her back and exuded some sort of alarming toxin through her fingertips. Her stuffed body is currently displayed above the mantelpiece in one of the London offices.

I gained the power to touch people and possess instant control of their bodies. I could make them move however I pleased. I could read their physical condition, detect pregnancy, cancer, a full bladder.

“Yes?” said Myfanwy. What, do these guys keep tabs on my comings and goings? “Well, I...had an appointment.” They regarded her with expectant eyes, and she was suddenly filled with a desire to shake up those proprietary stares. “A gynecologist appointment.” She smiled triumphantly at the twins. “To have my vagina checked.”

“I’m sorry, Rook Thomas, but your car is here,” she said.
“My car?” Myfanwy said.
“It’s time for your dinner with Lady Farrier.”
“Oh, crap,” she sighed, then noticed Clovis’s shocked expression. “I mean, oh, good, this should be delightful.”

“…past century she is notable for having kneed Joseph Stalin in the groin during a drinks reception, and she played a large part in the South African diamond industry,” Ingrid went on. “She also cured one member of our royal family of cancer in the 1950s, and infected another with syphilis in the 1960s.”

I can’t wear this!” Myfanwy exclaimed in horror.
“You can’t wear that!” the housekeeper exclaimed.
“It’s like all the material that’s supposed to be on top migrated to the bottom,” said Val.
Any wedding in which this dress appeared on the bride would have to be pretty damn open-minded, thought Myfanwy. And might well incorporate the honeymoon on the altar.

Occasionally, someone will point out these flaws and attempt to institute a change, but that person is slapped down. The reasons for this down-slappage are:

If you’re in the Court, you have an impressive title, and you don’t want to change it for something generic.

Tradition.

It’s supposed to remind us of the importance of strategy and of rank.

It’s cool.

Three boys and one girl. Two of the boys were identical. That’s not the weirdest thing, however. The weirdest thing was that when all four pairs of eyes opened, only one mind was looking out from behind them. This was Gestalt.

Gestalt is kind of disconcerting, because it/he/she/they is/are spread over four bodies.

Please let her have slept her way to the top, thought Myfanwy. No one deserves to be this beautiful and clever too.

My God, you were the most exciting find in decades! All of us knew about your potential. The tutors at the Estate were babbling about you to everyone!”

Finally, after a high-pitched kiYAA!, they settled back, breathing heavily, and explained that Eliza had just broken the neck of the leader of the antler cult, and that the complex was secured.
“Wow. Great,” said Myfanwy. “Nicely done.”
“Hmm,” said Tidy Twin absently. “Eliza has blood on her boots.”
“That’s lovely, Gestalt,” Myfanwy said, trying to keep her cool. “More coffee? Or more orange juice? No? Perhaps I could have Ingrid fetch you a couple of moist towelettes.”

“Gentlemen!” she finally shouted, and her voice cut through the noise like a scythe through a poodle. There was dead silence, and everyone stared at her, stunned. “You all need to shut up and stay focused on the task at hand. Dr. Crisp, if you will turn your eyes back toward the interrogation, I wonder if you could revive the subject and question him.”

It was an old room in an old building and was decorated in a very specific style that showed the decorators were lacking both imagination and a second X chromosome.

As he turned to meet my gaze, his full lips lifted in a welcoming smile, and his dimples made a rare appearance.

“Damn you, man, you do not need to announce me!” a roar came from the hallway.

"I have a standing appointment with her, which you bloody well know. We do not need to go through this every damn time, Sherman!” Marcus shouted, his voice much closer than before.

Sprawled over the rest of the couch, with his head on my husband’s thigh, was the large form ofhis lover, Henry Fletcher.

His amber eyes shone like topaz as they fixed on the point where Henry’s lips touched my skin, and the intensity I saw in them unsettled me.

What I would give to have a man look at me that way.

“Do you ever feel as though you made the wrong decision, Katherine?” he asked, his voice desperate and his beautiful face tormented in the dim light.

“Is it possible?”
It only took half a second for his eyes to come sliding back, and I watched as he dragged them down over my jaw, my throat, my breasts, my waist, and then back up again. “It’s possible,” he said on an exhale.

“We can’t just dive into this,” he said, his rumbling voice slow and lethargic.

Yes we can! I wanted to shout.

“I can tell you what I’d like to happen,” Henry offered, a lazy smile on his face. We both looked at him, waiting. “I want Kit to spread her legs, I want you to lean back into her, and I want you both to watch as I suck you off.”

About your husband.

Together the notes read, “I know a secret about your husband”. No, Henry hadn’t sent it, and neither had John. So that begged the question, who had? And why?

“Who did you send for?” I asked.

He eyed me a moment before responding. “James.”

I needed to lose control. I needed to find a person or a pastime to surrender myself to. I needed to be helpless to someone or something, turn my mind off, allow myself to feel, to want, and follow through without fear of the repercussions.

“Are you all right, Kit?” John asked, his voice sounding far away.

Has he been calling my name all this time? I wondered. It took me several attempts before I finally managed to answer him with a strangled, “Yes.”

“Do you want us to continue?” he pressed.

He slowly turned around.“What is love? In English.”
I raised my brows. “Love, in English, is love?”
“What is it in Spanish?”
I was so enthralled by h

He slowly turned around.“What is love? In English.”
I raised my brows. “Love, in English, is love?”
“What is it in Spanish?”
I was so enthralled by his hypnotic eyes, I could barely remember. “Amore?”
He shook his head ever so slightly.“No. Love in Spanish is you.”

The thing was, I didn’t do love. That wasn’t my thing. That was the reason why I didn’t date, I only got laid when I needed to blow some steam or have some fun. Love was scarier than deep space.

“You are special, Estrella,” Mateo said, his eyes softening as he gazed at me.

“Ugly?” Mateo said in fervent disbelief. “No. You are terribly beautiful, Vera. So beautiful that it hurts. You would outshine her like the star you are.”

“You already are the other woman!” he yelled right back. His words smashed into me, blowing me to smithereens. He cupped my face in his hands. “You already are, whether you want to be or not. You’ve bewitched me, Vera. You’ve blinded me. You’ve made me forget my vows. And all you had to do was shine.”

“Well…you’re married,” I said unevenly, wishing my heart would slow the fuck down, feeling completely exposed even in the dark of night.
“And so are many of them.”
“It would be inappropriate...”
“How do you know? Is this inappropriate?”

I shook my head adamantly. “It’s wrong. I don’t want to be the other woman. I’ve seen my dad go for the other woman, I can’t put his daughter through that,” I said. “Or his wife,” I quickly added.

"But Isabel convinced him to give it all up. To get away from the lifestyle she considered too wild.”
“Wild?”
She smirked. “Oh yes. Our players are known for being a little wild and crazy. Lots of sex and fights and drinking. Mateo was no different than the rest. And Isabel, with her Duchess grandmother and her socialite status, she didn’t want that."

He sighs and slows to a stop. “There are a lot of things about the world we live in that you don’t understand. Things you’ll find out in time.”

He sighs and slows to a stop. “There are a lot of things about the world we live in that you don’t understand. Things you’ll find out in time.”

“You are my husband, Declan Burke. I am your wife, Emma. We were married in a small ceremony with only our closest friends atop our mountain.”
“Yes, Emma, that’s right. You were absolutely beautiful.”

His arms wrap around tight and hold me as if I would run away and he could not bear it. But I will not. Not ever. I want to be with him always.

I told you to lie,Shesays coolly. You don’t understand yet, but you will.
I only understand that I am at war with myself, and I do not know why. One way or another, I will win.

When I look down, I find I am bound to the table by Velcro straps. Instinctively, I jerk and the bindings burn and pinch my wrists.
“What are you doing?” I ask, panicked.
“I’ll remove them when I think you’re no longer a danger to yourself.”

Those take you out of the building, She tells me. Probably to other floors, too. They’re teleportation units. Teleport. Teleporting. Teleportation. You know, teleporters.
They split you into a million different pieces and send your bits to your destination. You tell it where you want to port and it sends you there. Get it? Tell—a—port.

I recognize the acronym from one of my earlier dreams with Toni. “WTC?”
“Women’s Training Center. Where all our young women are prepared for marriage.”

“You know what I am talking about. Why do you insist on keeping my past a secret from me? If you are trying to protect me, stop. I do not need your protection. I need the truth before this gets any worse."

“The women who are fertile these days,” he continues while he stands and moves to one of his bookcases, “are only fertile into their late twenties, early thirties at most. It isn’t disease or genetics, just the unfortunate way things have progressed.”

He slaps his hands to his knees and stands. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Birth control is illegal. Abortion is illegal, with a very severe punishment. Emma, pregnancy is not a choice. I’m sorry.”

A couple of nurses arrive, take our vitals, and clean up our scrapes and cuts. One uses some kind of laser to heal my knuckle.

The girl whose beauty was once fabled became a horrifying monster.
Her legs twisted together into a reptilian beast. Her hair, so

The girl whose beauty was once fabled became a horrifying monster.
Her legs twisted together into a reptilian beast. Her hair, so envied by women and the subject of many an ode by men, transformed into a nest of vipers.
I am the Gorgon Medusa. And my eyes can turn anything living to stone.

They are gentle creatures, individually named by me but normally referred to as a whole, since they intertwine together more often than not. More importantly, they abhor death just as avidly as I do.

And it sucks. It genuinely, truly, absolutely, unequivocally sucks. I hate stealing lives.
Thus, not only am I a monster, I’m a really lousy one. A lonely, classic Five Stages of Grief following, insecure, shut-in of a pathetic beast who talks to the snakes on her head and the statues on her island.

I loathed and feared him at first, convinced he would abuse me like his relatives had, but he is a persistent thing. It took years—literally, hundreds of years—but he chipped away at my shell with acts of kindness small and large.

He is always trying to right wrongs, save people, and make the world a better place, which is one of the things I love best about him.

“The simple fact is, my uncle raped you, and somehow my bat-shit insane sister blamed and cursed you for it happening in one of her temples. In no way did you deserve what happened to you.” He shakes his head slowly as he closes in on me. “You’ve born it better than any other person I could ever imagine. It’s time for it to end, though. I sorely regret not doing anything earlier.”

Before—I had no say in my punishment. I’ve born it quietly.
Maybe it’s time I finally take a chance.

Athena is sitting next to Poseidon. Her hair is in a tight bun, her expression sour as she peers down at me. There is disdain there, and something else—something I can’t quite pinpoint. But whatever it is, I am more than aware of her revulsion, and it saddens me. I worshipped her. Served her. “How many times do I need to say it? The little whore got what she deserved.”

“Niece,” he stresses, mimicking her formality, “this isn’t the first time you’ve overstepped your bounds by punishing innocents; this one just so happens to be the last remaining victim.If you even try to spew that victim blaming crap again, I’ll take you down to the Underworld with me for a spell. Maybe then you can understand what true justice entails.”

“Anger is good. I can work with anger. She doesn’t need your coddling, Nymph-girl. She needs somebody to help her kick some ass.” His lips curl so high that I swear, the corner of one side of his mouth closes in on an ear. “And I can do that.”

Another kiss, a light brush across the center of my lips. “I will fight for us, Medusa. I will not give up. Please do not give up on yourself, either. Never forget that I love you. Never forget that you mean everything to me.”
Our foreheads touch. “I love you. Hold onto that. I did not wait two thousand years for your love only to lose it so easily.”

“For somebody who is supposedly the bastion of wisdom,” Hades continues darkly, “you do a piss-poor job of exhibiting it yourself.”

His voice matches mine. “No. It’s like I said—she’s insane. Her being named the purveyor of wisdom is one of the greatest of cosmic jokes.”

He is lounging in his throne, dressed in a t-shirt, torn shorts, and flip-flops. There is no beard, no mustache—just sandy hair and weathered, tan skin.

“Cease your frivolity, cow,” Athena hisses at her sister.
“How delightful. Your daughter strives to show example of my words,” Hades says, this time to Zeus.
“Athena, shut it, will you?” Zeus snaps. An exasperated sigh escapes from his lips as he kneads his forehead. Hermes was certainly right on this account—the Assembly loves to bicker.

It is obvious he and Persephone are deeply in love, which is yet another surprise. Like most everyone, I’ve read the stories of how he’d kidnapped her and held her against her will half the year in the Underworld. Only, Persephone doesn’t act like a kidnapped victim ought to act; that, or she’s an excellent actress who suffers heavily from Stockholm syndrome. She dotes on his words, as he does to hers.

He murmurs sweet words of comfort, ones that do not rush me to wrap up nor belittle me for my outburst. And I know, just know, in this moment that I love him. That I am in love with him.
That I have been for a long time and too blind to see it before now.

“You have a goodness in you others would have long let die away in such circumstances. This is what I fell in love with. Not your body—which, I won’t lie, I enjoy very much, or your beautiful hair (because you know I most certainly was fascinated with your snakes, too), or those eyes of yours I find myself so easily lost in on a regular basis. Dusa, I love you. Who you are."

Battles are all about strategy, and strategy pivots on priorities. Since my priorities were Prince Jalan, Prince Jalan, and Prince Jalan, with “loo

Battles are all about strategy, and strategy pivots on priorities. Since my priorities were Prince Jalan, Prince Jalan, and Prince Jalan, with “looking good” a distant fourth, I took the opportunity to resume running away.

There’s power in a name. “Prince” has served me very well—something to hide behind when trouble comes.

She had to have seventy years on her, but no one would have called her more than fifty. Handsome or not, though, her eyes would turn any man’s bowels to water. Flinty chips of dispassion.

She turned that awful face towards me, one eye dark, the other milk and pearl. It had felt hot, suddenly, as if all the great hearths had roared into life with one scorching voice, sparked into fury on a fine summer’s day, the flames leaping from iron grates as if they wanted nothing more than to be amongst us.

"Men of the Drowned Isles broke amongst us. Some living, others corpses preserved from rot, and other creatures still—half-men from the Brettan swamps, corpse-eaters, ghouls with venomed darts that steal a man’s strength and leave him helpless as a newborn."

Tenth in line to a throne will get you into a not-insignificant number of bedchambers, but if a man dons the scarlet cloak of the Red March riders and wraps his legs around a destrier, there are few ladies of quality who won’t open theirs when he flashes a smile at them.

I could see corpses and timbers, some black against the hot glow, others melting into it. Even the wind’s strength couldn’t keep the scent of roasting flesh from my nostrils. The walkway ran with hot fats, burning even as they spilled down the inner wall.

I’ve always found hitting a man from behind to be the best way to go about things. This can sometimes be accomplished by dint of a simple ruse. Classics such as, “What’s that over there?” work surprisingly often.

“You’re a man of honour.” Louder this time, looking right at me. Where the hell he got that idea, I had no notion.
“Yes,” I lied.
“We should settle this like men.” Absolutely the last words I wanted to hear.

“What’s his name?” A tall Nuban girl with copper loops through her ears and a mouth made for kissing. “How is he called?”
“Snorri,” I said. “It means wife-beater.”

I have a bad habit of blanking unpleasantness from my mind—something I’ve done since I was a child. They often say the best liars half-believe their lies—which makes me the very best because if I repeat a lie often enough I can end up believing it entirely, no half measures involved!

Bravery is just a different kind of broken. Scared of being a coward, is that what bravery is? Am I brave because I don’t fear being afraid? You’re of the light; the light reveals. Shine a bright enough light on any kind of bravery and isn’t it just a more complex form of cowardice?”

Snorri cut me off. “I took the prince out of the palace, but the palace is still crammed firmly up the prince’s arse. You need to stop moaning about every hardship, stop chasing every woman you lay eyes on, and concentrate on surviving.

“An axe for me. Swords trick you into thinking you can defend. With an axe all you can do is attack. That’s what my father named me. Snorri. It means ‘attack.’” He lifted the axe above his head. “Men think they can defend against me—but when I knock, they open.”

The air between Snorri and me spat and sparked as our hands shaped to grasp the other.

He brought his hand closer to mine and a pressure built against my skin, all pins and needles and fire.

Snorri’s magic had reached into me again and made me brave. In that moment I wanted to be the one to stand between the child and her attackers. To keep her safe. And failing that, to hunt them to the ends of the earth.

It was at least five feet long, maybe five and a half. Spotted black and blue fur grew in patches along its spine; the rest of it was covered with pinkish wrinkled skin. Its skull was almost horselike, if horses could be carnivores. Long jaws, too large for the head, protruded forward, making the wide, flat nose seem ridiculously small. A forest of sharp bloodred fangs sprouted from the jaws, barely hidden by white lips. But the eyes, the eyes were worst of all. Small and sunken deep into the skull, they burned with malevolent intelligence.

My magic boomed through the inn like the toll of a huge bell. It had no sound, but I heard it all the same. Sean flew out of the house like a fleck of dust caught in the current of a fan and smashed into an apple tree forty feet away. I heard the crunch all the way from where I stood.
"Karma," I said, petting the doorframe.
The house creaked.
"You did well," I murmured to it.

"How about Auul? Does that ring a bell?"
When pronounced the right way, the name rhymed with Raul, but it was softer, said with more longing, each vowel stretched until it sounded like the howl of a lonely wolf under the full moon.
"Cute," he said. "Are you going to bark at me next?"
Everyone does agree that after the civilizations had existed independently for almost a thousand years, theRaoo of Mraar invaded Auul.

"House of Krahr!" the vampire with the banner barked quietly.
"Krahr," the other four vampires exhaled and glared at me.
Usually they roared their house name at the top of their lungs, trying to intimidate... Oh. They were trying to be inconspicuous. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I'd never had an attempt at intimidation whispered at me before.
"My lord, why are you wearing trench coats?"
"We must blend in," he said. "This is a covert operation."
Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh... "It's very hot," I said. "Trench coats are a cold-weather garment."

"When a man takes up arms, he does so for many reasons. Sometimes to punish, sometimes to intimidate or frighten. But when a woman picks up a weapon, she means to kill. So please do not take this as an insult."
He leaned toward me. Suddenly the space between us shrank.
"I will do everything in my power to ensure your survival, and should the need arise, I will put myself between danger and you."

"Why are you helping them?"
"Because the safety of the inn and its guests is now in jeopardy."
"And the fact that both of them are heartbreakers has nothing to do with it?"
"They are very nice to look at. But the dahaka [monster] threatened me in my own house. That I will not tolerate."

“Oh, Winter. Oh, God. Oh, Winter.”
That’s right, he thought, drunk on power. One and the same.
She turned one cheek to the mattress and broke apart,crying out in long, wavering sobs.

Mouth slack and wide, he bucked, squinted his eyes closed, and bellowed out an extended cry that reverberated through her as he shuddered in her arms like a great, divine beast taken down by a single bullet.
She was the one who’d been shot.

Freckles everywhere.
They began in a sliver of pale forehead above arched brows, gathered tightly across her nose and cheeks, lightened around her neck, then disappeared into the dipping neckline of her dress.

Freckles on her legs—how about that? For some reason, he found this wildly exciting. Increasingly lurid thoughts ballooned inside his head after he wondered exactly what percentage of her skin was speckled. Did freckles cover her arms? The curving creases where her backside ended and her legs began? Her nipples?

The view only got better when she shucked off her coat: freckles covered every inch of her slender arms.

[The postcard] featured a naked woman with bobbed hair. She sat upon the lap of a naked man, who was propped up against a pile of cushions.
She rode him, mouth open, with a look of ecstasy on her face.
And she was freckled.

My. He was enormous—several inches over six feet and with shoulders broad enough to topple small buildings as he passed.

But it was the thicket below his rippled stomach that drew her attention. And the substantial length that hung under it.
Dear God.
She wasn’t exactly an expert on men’s naked bodies, but she’d seen a couple, and neither possessed anything between their legs quite like that, and definitely not in a state of rest. She could only guess what it looked like when it woke up.

She may have possibly made a series of desperate noises. She definitely arched against him, bumping into his erection again. Well, rubbing herself against it, to be truthful.

Who the fuck are you?
Here on the floor, in my final moments—MacKayla Lane’s last grand hurrah—I see that the answer is all I’ve ever been.
I’m nobody.

With an explosive inhalation, I snap upright in bed, and my eyes fly open—like coming alive after being dead and interred in a coffin.
I am Mac.
And I’m back.

And Barrons—what’s his deal? Doesn’t he want her alive? Why have they all abandoned her when she needs ‘em the most?
Men.
Dude, they suck.

“I was out of my mind. I’d never have done it otherwise.”
Really, his dark eyes mocked, and in them I was demanding more, telling him I wanted it to always be this way.
I remembered what he’d replied: that one day I would wonder if it was possible to hate him more.
“I had no awareness. No choice.” I searched for words to drive my point home. “It was every bit as much rape as what the Unseelie Princes did to me.”

Jonas looked directly at Beret now, and she saw the freakish scars on his face and thought what a good woman her aunt had been to pick up such an ugly child, a child other society women might find offensive, and take him into her home. [She] had been the soul of compassion.

I told him Lillie should be cut off until she saw the error of her ways and apologized, and that’s exactly what he did.

Beret found herself hating Lillie and thinking her sister deserved what she’d gotten

You would think after working with so many poor women who’d been abused by their husbands or been forced to sacrifice their honor to their employers that I would have known the man was always at fault. But I’m afraid I reacted like a typical scorned woman. I blamed the other woman—my sister.

Poor girl. If Ember had spent less time studying magic and more time studying human nature, she might have guessed that a man who gets everything and everyone he wants will come to want the one woman he cannot have.

“May he be charming. May every eye find perfection in his face and form. May every man respect him and every woman desire him. May all who meet him love him and long to please him.”

“You’re cruel. Don’t you think it must be a peculiar sort of hell to live surrounded by sycophants? Like living in a dollhouse. No matter how perfect your playmates, they are cold porcelain. Soon enough, you would long for the heat, the softness, and the imperfections of living flesh. You would long to hear words and wishes other than your own.”

I dreamt he leaned over me crying; his hot tears fell upon my cold cheeks. “Oh, she was so pure,” he wailed. “She was so delicate and special. She has died for the love of me. I can love no other!”
I must pause here to tell you, I see the way your lips are twitching. Please, don’t be afraid to laugh. My dignity is not so rigid I can’t see the humor in those youthful imaginings.

“‘You’re the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’” I finished with a direct quote, just to drive the nail deep.

I figured this was how Nicholas Nickleby felt when he was forced to work at Squeer’s squalid Yorkshire School. That was a dark, horrific place, where Mr. Squeer beat life and hope from his students. And those few months beat the life from me too. Hope had died long before.

It struck me that racing him might earn me some respect.
“And stop discriminating. You think because you’re a boy or because you’re black that you can beat me? You can’t.” I poked my finger into his chest.

“I see no passion in your writing. Only technique. It’s good, but it’s empty.”
“‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess...,’ but I am working hard.”

“‘I beg your pardon. Excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.’” I cringed.
“Caroline Bingley? Really?” Alex paused.

“That’s it?” I sat back. “You’re worse than Austen. You might as well say that his sentiments had ‘undergone so material a change’ or that ‘his affections and wishes’ were unchanged.”
Hannah flushed red. “Don’t...compare my proposal from my real fiancé to one of your books. This is my life and I’m inviting you into it. Don’t belittle it by quoting fiction.”
“‘I wish you all imaginable happiness,’ Hannah.” I was mad, and I threw that out just to spite her.
“Forget it, Sam. I don’t know who you’re quoting, but I can tell you are. I thought you’d enjoy my story and I wanted to share it with you, but you aren’t even here. I don’t know why I bother.

She was a daughter an old warrior could be proud of, with her matchless beauty and indomitable pride.

Henry couldn’t hide his exasperation. “Name your prize,” he growled, “and if it’s within my power, it’ll be yours for the taking.”
Slowly, [Alaun] raised his goblet. Sipped. “Your daughter.”
...it seemed as if [Lord Henry's late wife] stood at his shoulder, urging him on. “Ah, yes. My daughter, I believe you said? Should you compete in this tournament and be declared its victor, when you leave this castle, my daughter, Eloise, will be in your care.”

...he was not, nor had he ever been, interested in marrying her. It was her body he sought—he had made that abundantly clear from the first; he was the first man to approach her with no interest in her hand and the fortune that went with it. It was a novel situation—she wasn’t sure what she thought of it.

After their visual duel, let alone the little matter of his prize, she should have been quivering with reaction, uncertain, vulnerable to a subtle, more gentle assault. He’d expected to find a woman primed for seduction.
What he’d found was a woman only one step removed from the virago of the woods. Instead of melting into his arms, she’d tried to summarily dismiss him.
He wasn’t used to being dismissed, summarily or otherwise.

“You are not a burden!”
Startled by the force behind his words, she glanced up to see him cast a mute appeal heavenward. He looked down, impaling her with golden spears.
“You are mine! Tis time you understood that.”

“Nay, lord.” She turned to come up on her knees before him. “Come—plant your seed deeply, as do your stallions.” She glanced over her shoulder; her eyes gleamed. “Long, strong—and very slow.”

“Will it hurt?”
“Nay.”

We have a traitor among us. Someone has been working with the Fallen to expose the names and locations of the vulnerable Nephilim.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to shut up.”
“Jesus! I’m trying to have a freaking conversation with you! You know, a normal one people have every day. Hey, how are you and all that shit. Is that so hard?”

She didn’t have Julian—she couldn’t have Julian. It wasn’t like he was another Nephilim or even a human—a human would have been better choice.
A rabid opossum would have been a smarter choice.

Lily sighed wearily. This wasn’t going as planned. “Michael, sit down. Luke, shut up.” It was a sad day for Nephilim around the world when she played mediator. “If you guys want to pull out your dicks and see whose is bigger, can you go ahead and do it so we can move on?”

“Who the fuck are you, Ms. Lane?”
Rage filled me. Rage at what had been done to her. Rage at him for bringing it up. The thought that no one could s

“Who the fuck are you, Ms. Lane?”
Rage filled me. Rage at what had been done to her. Rage at him for bringing it up. The thought that no one could see or judge me was liberating. I swelled with grief and anger.
“Now tell me who you are.”
“Vengeance,” I said in a cold voice.

I turned around slowly, and looked up at him. He stiffened and sucked in a shallow breath. After a moment, he touched my cheek.
“Such naked pain,” he whispered.
I turned my face into his palm and closed my eyes. His fingers threaded into my hair, cupped my head, and brushed the brand. It heated at his touch.
“Never show it to me again.” His face was cold, hard, his voice colder.

He began bringing me gifts. One day he brought me chocolate that wouldn’t make me gain weight, no matter how much I ate.

I live with my mother in a house bigger than the entire shelter. I have a master’s degree from Yale. I work as a volunteer, and I don’t even need to do that. Do I appreciate it? No. On good days, it chafes, like a dress with a scratchy tag. On bad ones, I feel like a bobcat caught in a trap, ready to gnaw my foot off to escape. Then I look at someone like Cathy, and a wave of guilt and shame stifles the restlessness.

"Prove us innocent of this crime and the other evidence will be called into question. A house of cards. Pull out one and the rest topples.” She leaned forward. “Can you do that for me, Olivia?"

“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible---from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out.Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”